It's Only a Peniscil
by lyelack
Summary: Very little plot, a lot of blow jobs.


"Sherlock?" John asked staring at the man across the couch from him, "Sherlock?" He asked louder, shaking his head as he did so. The man was reading an animal journal; this particular issue, John gathered from the front cover, had an article on how to identify what droppings belonged to which animals from all over the world. Why Sherlock needed to know this John would never understand, then again he never did really understood many of Sherlock's intrinsic fascinations with what other people would class as useless mundane facts. John kicked Sherlock lightly with his foot, "Earth to Sherlock!"

"How can a planet come to a person John? Honestly." His barely gazing up from the pages in front him, "Ignoring the fact that I live on said planet it would still be vastly impossible - first something would have to force the planet to overcome the numerous gravitational pulls holding it in it's orbit. Secondly, said force would have to be large enough to create a new trajectory for the planet. And the odds that these factors would allow a planet to come to a single person ignoring all the other factors that would influence it's movement about space? Absurdly negligible. And do not even get me started on how improbable that would all be considering neither planet would survive such a collision because the planet coming towards me would not be able to stop without a new, even more impossible force."

"I'll get my pencil myself then, shall I?" John asked wondering why he even bothered.

"Yes, obviously. What a silly question." Sherlock shook his head raising the journal again.

John rolled his eyes wondering why he even bothered asking Sherlock to bend down and grab the pencil that had fallen on the floor just underneath him. Both men were curled up on the couch, one at either end, Sherlock reading about animal droppings, John hand-writing a rough draft of their latest solved case, "The Frog Esquire." he had decided to call it. At least for now, until Sherlock mocks him for hours about it and he comes up with a more suitable title.

John loved writing but he hated computers. He was useless at using them. He would type with only two fingers and it would take him near an hour to get two paragraphs done. He, after several additions to his blog, finally devised a system that was more time efficient. Writing everything freehand and then transferring it to the computer once it was finished. It meant twice the work but it meant much less time staring at a white blank page while thinking about what happened next. And John was willing to accept that as a win. He, however, was not willing to accept that Sherlock didn't hear him ask to pick up the pencil.

John moved from his comfortable position, two small cushions behind his back with his head resting against the armrest. The couch was barely large enough for the both of them to sit on together like this, their feet would occasionally touch but neither one seemed to want to move. They had found themselves like this many times before, mostly when they were caseless, like they are now. Sherlock initially choose to settle in front of John making it easier to annoy him; now, however, it was merely their relaxing position while they waited for a murder. They had grown accustomed to it.

John bent down to his knees, stiff as he was and reached under the couch. His fingers grazed the edge of the pencil only resulting in it being pushed further underneath the couch, "Blasted." John exclaimed in frustration. It wasn't that this was his only pencil, he had several others hidden amongst the flat, it was simply that they were hidden in the flat and not by him. Sherlock had cottoned on to John's scheme of writing down his journal entries before typing them up and posting them to his blog; so, in order to hinder John from inviting the world into their lives Sherlock hide the pencils in places John wouldn't look. The first and only one he had found was hidden amongst the severed toes festering on the bathroom window sill; he had stopped looking after that.

"Can you, maybe, I don't know move a bit please Sherlock." John asked realising how close his face was to the man's hip bone as he reached further under the couch. His eyes lingered longer than what was strictly necessary at the way the fabric clung to the man's curves. John always wondered how Sherlock, so tall and lean, managed to stay so fit and healthy looking; especially with his diet, or lack there of.

"No."

"You're making this very difficult you know that, don't you?"

"Yes."

John didn't have to look up to know there was a smile creeping on Sherlock's face. He could hear it in the tone of his voice; even with just one word being said. In fact, if John even wanted to look up he couldn't. His eyes were fixated on the pelvis of the man in front of him. The dress pants, dark grey in colour, were tighter than John originally thought. When standing they hung loose on Sherlock but lounging on the couch like this they were bunched and just a tad bit stretched. John could see the outline of Sherlock's phone in the pocket in front of him. His eyes began wandering across to the other hip wondering what was in that one when an other elongated shape took his eyes.

"John?" Sherlock asked the journal now resting on his chest, "You found your pencil?"

"I-I a penis-penispencil. A pencil." He said standing flabbergasted, "What?"

Sherlock laughed, "What is the matter with you now?"

"Nothing, what's the matter with you?" John snapped back at him. He took a deep breath, sighing, "You caught me staring at you, didn't you?"

"John," Sherlock looked at him straight faced as ever, "I knew within a few seconds of seeing you that you had been shot in a war in Afghanistan. How could I possibly not notice you staring at my crotch for 10 seconds while you were mere inches away from me?"

"Let's…. let's not talk about this, ok? I'm… I'm going to make some tea." He said turning away.

"Wait," Sherlock sat up, "Aren't you forgetting something?"

John turned back around, his eyebrow arching as he asked, "What?"

Sherlock smiled slyly, and gestured to under the couch between his legs, "Your pencil John. Aren't you forgetting your pencil?"

John could feel his face becoming hotter wondering what Sherlock was playing at. "No, it's only a penis…cil." John closed his eyes and shook his head silently swearing at himself. When he opened them a few moments later Sherlock was leaning back on the couch with his dress pants halfway down calves. "Wha…err…. wha," John began blinking his eyes rapidly trying to process the sight in front of him. Sherlock half naked on the couch staring up at him, his hand gliding slowly over his erect penis. "What?"

"You seem to be getting confused as to what you want, so I thought," Sherlock smiled, "I'd help out a bit."

"Help out how?" John asked forcing himself to stare directly into Sherlock's eyes and not have them wander downward, down to where Sherlock's hand was still slowly but steadily moving.

"You keep saying penis and pencil as if they are one in the same. So, I figured you should get both at the same time. Now, get on your hands and knees, and try to get the pencil out from under the couch while you take my penis in your mouth."

There was no flicker of joking in Sherlock's eyes, no hint of undo mischievousness in his tone of voice that John has heard countless and countless times before, no mocking. "Is this some kind of a trick?" John asked hesitantly albeit taking a step forward.

He couldn't deny that the thought had crossed his mind more than once. Many nights he would lay awake in his bed imaging Sherlock beside him naked, imaging what he would taste like on his lips, and how it would feel to have Sherlock deep inside him. It had been, after all, a long time since John had been with someone; Sherlock usually having scared them away before the second date.

"John, what about this situation looks like a trick to you? Honestly." Sherlock gazed at John a slight hint of annoyance spreading across his face, "Hurry up or I'll finish myself." Sherlock added after a few moments of John standing still looking at him, watching.

John licked his lips and placing his hands either side of Sherlock on the couch lowered himself to his knees. He looked down at Sherlock's penis in Sherlock's now unmoving hand. John licked his lips once again looking up to Sherlock as if asking permission.

Sherlock nodded and removed his hand placing it lightly on the back of John's neck. John opened his mouth and slowly began sucking on the tips, getting accustomed to Sherlock's taste. John had his hands on Sherlock's knees steadying himself as Sherlock began to take control.

"John." Sherlock breathed heavily as he ran his fingers through John's hair. He pushed John down further, holding him a few seconds and then allowing John to back off. Sherlock continued this rhythm, ever in control, while John ran his tongue on the underside, occasionally he would hit the tender spot of Sherlock's dick and it would make Sherlock groan and thrust his hips up. Other times John would concentrate on the slit in Sherlock's penis, and sensitive area around the head. He would run his tongue over and over these spots while continually sucking.

"How do I taste John?" Sherlock managed to grit out, "Better than your girlfriends?" He added thrusting deeper into John's mouth.

John could only moan, making incoherent sounds as Sherlock thrust in and out of his mouth. "You want this John." Sherlock said, speeding up, "You've wanted this for ages, I could tell. I saw the way you looked at me. I heard you touching yourself at night."

Sherlock bit his lower lip as he felt his release building, "John, make me cum, swallow me. Make me yours." His grip tightened on John's hair as he thrust one last time deeply into John's mouth spilling his cum.

John, breathless stared up at Sherlock, who rested his hand on the side of John's face. John leaned into the touch and started laughing.

"What?" Sherlock asked sitting forward alert.

"I think you'll have to try and get the penis…cil now, because I failed to reach pencil." John smiled up at him.

Sherlock laughed, "Hopeless, John. Utterly hopeless. Now swap places and let's see if we can't get it right this time."


End file.
